She fanned herself as Lupe went to fetch her a glass of lemonade.
Tomás appeared at her side.
“You danced!” he said.
“Of course.”
“I didn’t know you could dance.”
“I have always danced.”
“I never saw it.”
“You weren’t paying attention, Papá.”
He crossed his arms.
How could he say what he wanted to say to her?
He was struck mute with the silence of every father of every daughter, that moment when the words cannot come, and what wanted to be said would forever remain silent.
Lupe came back and handed her the glass. He glared at Tomás. Tomás said, “I,” and looked at the dark ground. He shook his head. He patted Teresita’s arm. He took off his hat and said, “I am sleepy. It is time for bed.”
She watched him retrieve Caballito Urrea from the cottonwood where he was tied. Tomás mounted the little stallion slowly, as if he were in pain. For a brief moment, in the gray light at the edge of the crowd, he seemed old. He slumped in the saddle. He looked at his hat, dropped it on the ground, and let the Apache war pony wander back downhill. Boys rushed in and squabbled over the great man’s hat, but Segundo waded in and put the boot to their behinds and picked it up, dusted it off, and held it to his chest.
Teresita watched Gabriela watch Tomás slink away. Gaby turned and stared at her. She called the small ones, who protested but joined her. Together, they walked into the night.
And the house grew dark with the presence of Rodriguez. Even in his hut in Ward Canyon, he radiated his essence across the valleys and the field; his spirit slunk like a ghost through the pines and seemed to mock them from the corners, whisper poisonous imprecations in Teresita’s ear. Tomás saw him etched in her face, saw him in shadows in the corner. Her tone of voice had changed—it was so subtle, perhaps only a father could hear it. Only a father could hear how his daughter’s words lost a half tone of their melody and grew slightly clipped, slightly earthbound, shifting as a lover’s voice does into the timbre and range of the loved one’s. He could not bear the abomination of Lupe’s voice flooding her mouth. The familial earthquakes had begun, and no one could stop the trembling of the bedrock, and no one could find a place to flee.
Teresita glared at her father, and he seemed ready to strike her at several moments during their days. She stopped eating with him and the others and locked herself in her room with romantic projects for Lupe, projects she wielded like a club to punish her family, who, she was certain, was betraying her daily. Lupe had told her they didn’t want her to be happy, didn’t want her to have love for herself. She was like a prize horse for them. They used her to attract attention and money and power. They were good for nothing on their own—they needed her fame to bring them into the eyes of the world. This is why they wanted to cut her off from God… and from him. They needed her alone and lonely, dependent on them. “You are a prisoner,” he’d whispered.
And finally, irrevocably, the father and the daughter erupted. The family felt a terrible catharsis mixed with paralyzed shock. They knew it was coming. It had to come. They needed it to come, for the pressure in the house was as dense as an impending thunderstorm.
Like so many family battles, it began over nothing. It was ridiculous. Petty. And it immediately dragged forth slights and resentments, insults and disappointments spanning years. The earth ruptured during breakfast, after she had sullenly thrown herself into her chair and refused to look at anyone. “Ah,” Tomás said, “the queen has deigned to join us commoners.” They ate and murmured and thanked Mrs. Smith when she appeared with more amazements from her kitchen, and the whole time, Teresita heaved sighs of sorrow and disapproval, rolling her eyes when her father said anything. He felt it, felt every sigh like nails raked down his neck. Like all fathers, he elaborately ignored her outbursts and her mood up until he started to mock her—sighing in a false female voice when she did; slumping in his chair while casting ferocious hawk’s-eye glances at Gaby to make sure his outrage was being noted. He raised his coffee cup in a toast: “To love.”
She smacked her hand lightly on the table.
“What?” he said.
“Forget it,” she replied.
Forks lowered. Eyes widened. Mrs. Smith peeked out at them. Anita blinked.
“Do you have something to say?” asked Tomás.
“Not to you I don’t,” she said.
He smiled. His face was red.
“Well, well,” he said. “Aren’t we vicious!”
She got up.
“Sit down!” he roared.
Anita jumped; Gaby put her hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t think so,” said Teresita.
“As long as you are in my house, you will do what I say.”
“Or what?”
He rose.
“Gordo…” Gaby warned.
“Or you will find out,” he said.
Segundo wandered in, looked back and forth between them, and walked out.
Reluctantly, shooting fire from her eyes, she sat down again.
“That’s more like it,” he said, not sure what to do with himself—he stood there feeling foolish for a beat, then sat. “We will eat a goddamned civilized breakfast with some goddamned manners and stop acting like savages,” he proclaimed.
“Savages?” she said.
“Yes. Indeed. I refer to Mr. Rodriguez.”
She busied herself with her spoons, moving them around, blinking back tears.
“I am having him escorted from the mountain,” Tomás said.
She jerked in her seat.
“We’ve had enough of this romance of yours.”
“Like you’ve had enough of God?” she snapped.
“Please,” he scoffed. “Such drama.”
“I love him!”
“You don’t know what love is.”
“And you do?” she said. She laughed. “Oh, yes, I see. Love is adultery with a waitress who could be my big sister. Thank you for that lesson, Pápi.”
He jumped up and—everybody shrieked—went to strike her. She did not flinch. His hand flew forward, but he caught it in time. Pulled back. Just stood.
“Get out,” he said. “Come back when you are ready to apologize.”
She pushed away and went to the doorway and said, “I am not sorry.”
Even though she was.
Thirty-Four
HELL CAME WALKING DOWN the mountain as the sun was clearing the peaks.
Teresita wasn’t even out of her room yet—she was not even combed. She puttered in her room with the many newspaper articles about her that followers mailed her. It was amazing to her: places she had never heard of, and they were writing about her. She thought Lupe would enjoy them. She had in mind an album with these stories mounted to its pages and, perhaps, dried herbs and pressed flowers pasted in around them. She would give him her life, all in one place.
She shuffled the limp and yellowing pages, shaking her head. Where was Manitoba? Canada! She could not imagine it. And this, Fort Wayne, in a place called Indiana. Indiana! It must have Indians. She wanted to go there. Her scissors trimmed the stories.
Her feelings were a jumble. It thrilled her, and it aggrieved her, to see herself in the papers. She didn’t know what to feel.
Anaconda, Montana? Portsmouth, New Hampshire? Newark, Ohio? Ah! New York! She ran her finger over the New York City news, as if she could read the English by touch.
She had to do something. Guadalupe was about to burst. She knew that. She knew it—any woman would know. His pain stung her.
They had walked down the mountain. He had held her hand, his fingers laced through hers. She felt safe. His arms were like stone against her shoulders, his hand was large, rough. The great pistola creaked on his hip, and the sombrero kept even the sun from touching her.
When they’d stopped in the tiny bosque at the entrance to Cabora Norte, he had swept her up and pressed h
is lips to hers. She kissed him back, hard, the way she thought he wanted her to kiss. His lips parted, and hers opened too. He breathed into her mouth. It was dizzying. His breath moved into her mouth and circled there, and she breathed it back into his. It was beyond anything she had imagined. They breathed into each other against a willow. And he pulled back her hair and licked and bit her throat.
She pushed his hand away from the front of her blouse.
“Teresa!”
“Wait, no.”
He backed away. He stared off. He breathed hard.
“I want you.”
“You have me.”
He fell toward her and braced his arms on either side of her so she could not escape. She felt a bolt of fear for a moment. Terrible old dreams scampered down her body, and she raised one knee slightly.
“I want to be inside you,” he said.
There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to look.
“Ay, amor,” she whispered. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I am sorry. My love, if I could, I would give you all of me.”
“Show me! Give it.”
“I cannot. Not yet. I… mustn’t.”
He dropped his arms and walked in a circle.
“It hurts, you know,” he said. “If you are a man. It hurts.”
She wrung her hands.
“I thought you said you weren’t a saint.”
“I am not a saint.”
“Then allow me to love you like a man. Who will know?”
Her jaw were so tight they hurt.
“I do not know.”
“I know!” he said.
He took both her hands in his.
“Come with me for a moment. I want to show you something.”
And they hurried away from the rancho and made their way through the pines and the aspens, out past Lupe’s cabin to a small butte that jutted into the Arizona sky like the rocky prow of some petrified ship. And when they stood out upon the point of the rocks, they could see all the way down, all the way to the orange and mauve and salmon deserts below, and to the cream-white playas wobbling in the heat, and to the violet and black Apache mountains beyond. They could see all the way to Mexico.
“Only I know you,” he said. “Only I know your true power. Let me unleash it.”
She stared at the world at her feet.
“Give me yourself here, now, and I will give my life for you. I will give this all to you.” He spread his arms. “I will give you things you have never dreamed.”
His hand closed on the back of her neck.
“The Witch of Cabora!”
He laughed.
“The world is yours. And you are mine.”
“No, Lupe… I want to. Not yet.”
“Take off your dress.”
“I will want to. In time. I… promise.”
He laughed without humor.
“I have nothing but love for you,” he said. He put his hand on himself. She looked away. “Do not be ashamed. This is in honor of you. Of my love for you.” He leaned in and touched her cheek. “A man’s love belongs inside his woman.”
She put her hands out to his face and held both his cheeks.
“I am not ready,” she said. “One day you will understand.”
“Ready?” He tightened his grip. “I could sacrifice us right now. I could throw us from this cliff. We could be together forever.”
She did not know what was happening. Was this love talk? Was this what men said to their women? Was this what true passion sounded like? Lupe was talking like some poet. She had never heard such things, even in her imaginings. She pulled back and strained against his hand.
“Please,” she said.
He dropped his hand. He stepped away. He shook his head.
“When we are wed?” he said. “Will that make you ready?”
She blinked.
“What did you say?”
“I said, when we marry, will you be ready then?”
She was so stunned, she just stared at his dark shape against the sky.
“Well?”
Finally, she managed to say, “Yes…” She meant to say more. To clarify. She needed to clear her head, at least. But she dared not speak.
“All right, then,” he said. “But don’t make me wait.”
He nodded and tipped his hat to her and walked her back to the house, then left her to shake and replay every word a hundred times in her head.
Hell came clocking down the rail line in worn cowboy boots.
Tomás was sitting on the front porch, surrounded by his children. He rocked placidly, sipping his coffee. He had the deep-rooted fear of going barefoot that all Sinaloan gentlemen harbored: if you were barefoot, you were a pauper or an Indian. Not even in the house did they go discalced, but the sun was out and the boys had rubbed Tomás’s sore feet and to hell with it.
He was telling them a tale of the gold mine near Rosario, Sinaloa—a fabulous place of mango trees and coconut palms, alligators and floods and bananas. In the children’s minds, it was the Garden of Eden. With iguanas and snapping turtles.
“Your uncle Seferino,” Tomás lied, “was wandering through the land, probably hunting a jaguar. Yes, it was a jaguar that had killed his…”
“Geese!” cried the littlest of the children.
“Silly,” said Anita. “Jaguars don’t eat geese.”
“Right, Anita!” Tomás said, squinting at her. “The jaguar ate your uncle’s goat!”
“Told you,” said Anita.
“Uy, uy, uy,” said little brother Paúl. “You think you’re so special.” He stuck out his tongue.
“So your uncle Seferino Urrea was wandering in the forest when he saw a monk. A very strange and eerie monk. All hunched over and mossy-looking. His hood hid his face in shadow.”
“A ghost, I bet!” blurted Anita.
“Shh. So Seferino said, ‘Hey, monk!’ Something like that. But the monk hurried away, and Seferino followed him, and he was led into a cave. It’s a terrible cave. Do you know why?”
They shook their heads.
“Because the cave looks exactly like gigantic human buttocks! ¡Nalgas tremendas!”
They burst out laughing, scandalized.
“¡Ay, Papá!”
“I’m sorry if it happens to be true. It is called Butt Mountain. Well, Seferino entered the cave and found the monk going deeper and deeper. Carrying a torch. He followed. They turned many times, down many corridors, and your poor uncle thought he would never find his way back out.”
“Were there bats?” the littlest boy wanted to know.
“Were there bats! There were bats, my boy! Big black barking bats! Suddenly, Seferino came around a bend and found the monk standing before a huge pile of gold! Gold everywhere! Gold bars, gold coins, gold lamps! Spanish gold! And the monk turned to look at him, but beneath his cowl there was no face! Only a skull! And then the monk disappeared!”
He sipped his coffee.
“¿Qué pasó?” they cried.
“Seferino tied a rope to the biggest chest of gold and made his way back out, uncoiling the rope behind him so he could lead his friends in to collect the treasure. But when he gathered the men of the village and rode back to the cave—”
“The rope was gone!” Anita shouted.
“No. The rope was there. So they followed it. They marched in single file, deep into the ghost monk’s treasure cave. But guess what they found. They found the rope—sticking out of a solid wall of rock! There was no way to get in to the treasure. And that rope, to this very day, dangles out of that solid rock wall.”
He chuckled at the expressions on their faces, and he stretched out his legs and let the sun cook his toes.
“Good one, eh?” he said with his eyes closed.
“Who is that?” the boy asked.
And Tomás opened his eyes.
He kicked open the gate and came through. His arms were across his chest, and his Winchester was tucked in them, forming a cro
oked cross with his torso. Tomás didn’t know who it was at first—he had hacked off his hair. It was ragged and wild in the breeze.
“Go inside,” he said, rising from his seat. The kids scrambled. Tomás reached for his pistols, but they were inside. Before he understood who this stranger was, he shouted, “Can I help you?”
Lupe whipped the rifle out and worked the lever. He walked forward, aiming at the center of Tomás’s chest. Tomás laughed nervously. What a time to be without a pistola… or Segundo.
Lupe stopped ten feet from the porch, planted his feet, kept the rifle aimed at Tomás’s heart.
If this pendejo thinks I’m afraid of him, he’s a fool, thought the Sky Scratcher. He took up his coffee cup and insolently sipped and raised his eyebrows.
“I have come for what is mine,” Lupe announced.
“Payday isn’t till Friday,” Tomás said.
Good one! he thought.
“Do not mock me, chingado!” Lupe warned.
Tomás dug in the corner of his left eye with one finger.
“Coffee’s cold,” he said and splashed it at Lupe’s feet.
Lupe shook the rifle at him.
“She is mine.”
Tomás put the cup on the table. He could hear the children crying behind him. Gaby was coming—he knew her tread on the wooden floors; he could smell her.
“I will have her! Now!”
Tomás sighed.
“Do you not think,” he said, “that I have faced weapons before? Do you not think that men have tried to kill me a million times—all over my daughter?” He shook his head. “And now you? You? A dog-shit peasant, coming here like this?” He laughed.
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